The Decline of One Norman Jayden
by General-Jingwei
Summary: Norman Jayden, FBI. He's a hero, saved the kid, freed the dad, set the mom's mind at rest. And now, he faces the consequences. Set after "Case Closed", in which Norman begins to lose his mind due to over-use of ARI.
1. Chapter 1

Hi! Remember me? That weird guy from your bushe- I mean, that writer who hasn't done anything in a while. I'm bored with Tommy, lacking inspiration for Archer, and I love Heavy Rain. All of these things combine to form- this. This chapter is scattered about, but purposefully so. I wanted to express a feeling of addiction and desperation- dunno if it worked, but tell me, please! Without further ado...

BEGIN!

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><p>Special Agent Norman Jayden leaned back in his office chair and sighed. He was back in D.C.; the Origami Killer fiasco (or, as he had begun to call it, the Origami Incident) had skyrocketed his career, made him famous. He had been on <em>Let's Talk Tonight<em>, an evening-based talk show, in which he had been hailed as a hero. The nation knew him as "The Agent Who Saved Our Children". The Bureau knew him as "That Odd Norman Guy Who Solves More Cases Than There Are Days in the Month". Or, for short, the weirdo who doesn't leave his office much. He was a bit of a loner, a competent, confident agent who simply didn't have friends.

The Origami Incident had been a double-edged sword, although the losses seemed to outweigh the gains. He had gained fame, certainly, but he had lost his health. Physically, he was fine- actually, he was better than he had been before, fitter, and more alert to danger. Mad men twice your size, duels on conveyor belts, serial killers rushing at you with ornate swords, and so much else would do that to you. Mentally, he was sharp- solving cases was incredibly difficult, granted, but it was nowhere near out of his comfort zone. In fact, he enjoyed it.

And then, there was ARI. ARI. His drug- that _had _been Triptocaine, but no longer. He had flushed that habit, flushed it straight down the toilet, never looked back, never taken it again. His situation was complicated- to say the least. He had the shakes, he got nosebleeds, he couldn't concentrate. When the trips were really bad, his vision blurred and he couldn't control his movements. He would begin to spasm, and sometimes blacked out for periods of time. Triprocaine had, originally, alleviated these symptoms; however, when he didn't have the infernal substance, they would come back in force, doubling or tripling in strength.

He knew, in his heart of hearts, that ARI was the cause. Norman had signed up for the ARI Project when the technology was incredibly experimental- had signed up before it was, technically, approved. It had not only caused those ill-effects, it had also taken something he held dear.

ARI had cost him his sanity. Norman Jayden was slowly going mad, slowly losing his mind, going bonkers, whacko, whatever-you-please. ARI had taken a firm grip on his mind; he loved it. It helped him escape reality, allowed him to be alone with his thoughts and his cases. Not to mention his butler- then again, the butler was, technically, himself. ARI had caused him pain, embarrassment. It had nearly cost him his life and his job several times over. However,

_(don't say it don't)_

he felt like a god. ARI made him a hero, let him catch the villains and throw them in jail. ARI gave him a power, a power to answer all the questions and save all the lives.

ARI was his life, ARI had wrecked his life, and ARI was killing him. And he was addicted. Norman groaned, slowly rising to his feet and pushing the chair back behind him. He could see them, still- the tanks, those virtual machines, roaming around his office. He wasn't wearing ARI, yet he saw them. Which was physically impossible; they existed only in ARI's world, and he was out of ARI's world. For now. Already, he could feel it, the itching and the twitching. He needed a hit- needed his drug. The glasses were in his coat pocket, and the glove was in his desk drawer. He had a job, however. He needed to see the director

_(just the director that man and then the drug happiness)_

of the FBI. The man was in his own office, and Norman just needed to head there and speak with him before he could rest.

Norman shook his head, first gently, then with increasing vehemence. His thoughts were everywhere, his mind in pieces. He strode to the door of his office, but paused with his hand on the doorknob. One of the tanks was approaching him. He had come to think of them as cute things- his own little pets that no one else knew of. However, they had never directly interacted with him; the fact that this one was about to worried him. The tank's main cannon adjusted to point at his knees- likely the highest it could reach- and then did something Norman had prayed never to see happen.

The hatch opened, and a virtual human being emerged. Norman hit the ground hard.


	2. HyperRealism

Hi! So. I have a reviewer. Woah... cool! That's a bit of a kick in the head (reference? Anyone? Anyone?), to be honest. Well, thank you, SO MUCH, and, if it's not too much to ask... keep reviewing? Also. I love Norman. It's off to write about him like this, I usually write him all triumphant and stuff, so, if I do something wrong, tell me, please... BEGIN! (But, first; this chapter and the one before it have been short. I'll make them longer, from here on out.)

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><p>"Norman? Christ, Jayden, get up!" The director was standing over him, gently slapping his cheek. "C'mon, Norman, I know you're not dead…"<p>

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, sir," Norman mumbled, sitting up. "Now, if you'd please stop slapping me…" Norman waved him away, slowly rising to his feet. What had happened? There had been… something… the tanks drove in tight little circles around his desk's legs, jogging his memory slightly. He could feel his face go pale, and his hands began to tremble. The director didn't know that he saw these apparitions; had he known, Norman would've been put on medical leave a long time ago.

"Norman, are you alright? Look like you've seen a ghost, maybe two." The director frowned, reaching out a hand to Norman, as though he could help him through sheer proximity. "Hey, I wanted to say, I'm pulling you from the Brall case. Trust me, they can handle it, and you need a few vacation days."

Vacation? Norman was confused. He shook his head and steadied his hands, regaining control of himself and his thoughts. Vacation could be either very good or very bad- meaning, he could either recover, or he could use ARI for hours on end and lose his head completely. No, work was good. Work kept him alive. "Er, director, I'd rather not take those days, if it's all the same to you. You know, I started this case, I'd quite like to finish it, thanks." Norman forced himself to stand up straight and regain his outward composure. He was okay. He would be fine, as long as he didn't take that vacation. He was sure of it, now; a vacation would be the death of him.

"Norman Jayden, I'm putting you on mandatory sick leave. I could either file a report labeling you a hindrance to our investigation, or I could order you privately and trust you to take my advice. I'd rather not go through the hassles of paperwork, you understand…" He trailed off, gesturing to Norman to make his decision. Well, the agent couldn't exactly refuse his director, could he?

"Yessir. Right on it. I'll go and, uh, sleep. Try to clear my head." Norman could see that the director was satisfied,

_(bastard I hope you're happy)_

and that was all that mattered. Well, outwardly, that was all that mattered. Of course, in Norman's mind, the director could go to hell and he wouldn't be any worse for it. Granted, in reality, he would be, but…

The director nodded at him and left, closing the door to Norman's office on his way out. Before he had even had time to consider his actions, the addict was at his desk drawer, clawing at the handle and ripping the drawer entirely out of the desk. He ripped out sheaves of paper and folders, tossing them aside and grabbing at the ARI glove.

He slipped it on his right hand, allowing the bliss of Added Reality to wash over him. In an instant, though, he realized how wrong it was. Norman recoiled, slapping at the air in front of him as though he could beat it into submission. He ripped off the glasses, tore off the glove, and hurled them both into the wastebasket he kept by his desk. Bile rose to the top of his throat, and he yanked them both back out of the trash and placed them atop his desk.

ARI was changed. ARI was wrong. He leaned back in his chair, running his hands through his hair. He couldn't help but wonder

_(what the fuck was that what the fuck not ARI not MY ARI)_

what, exactly, had happened. Rather than the soothing, lush, mountaintop setting he had chosen for his default background, he had seen hell. Or, rather, what had to have been hell's deranged bastard child with a volcano. The world around him had been engulfed in flames, had been melting away as he watched. He could _feel _the heat. ARI was fictional- immersive, but fake. He could _feel _it, scalding his legs and warming his cheeks.

Norman turned to his trash can and vomited, wondering two things. The first was what he could do about this- ARI obviously had his mind in a firm grip, and was throttling it. The second was whether or not he would be able to recover- be it in four years, or four decades, Norman knew that he may be scarred, no matter how fully he recovered his sanity.

For the first time in ages, Norman Jayden began to cry.


	3. Control

Alright! Hey, guys, who doesn't love drug-induced hallucinations? I admit, I borrowed from one of the other endings here, but the effect was nice enough. Without further ado, BEGIN!

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><p>Thirty minutes later, Norman was home. He rented a tiny little apartment just south of the FBI's headquarters, and often wondered why he didn't use some of that extra money he earned- of which there was a great deal- to buy a mansion somewhere far away. He could probably <em>retire<em> comfortably at this point- hell, he definitely could. The director himself had once asked why Norman hadn't yet quit.

Norman couldn't quit because he loved it. He loved solving cases, he loved helping people- no, he didn't. The Origami Fiasco had left him with an insatiable thirst for mystery. Not for reading about them, not for creating them. He didn't want to be the gamemaker, he wanted to be a player- to be that pawn that reached the end, and became a king. Or, for that matter, a queen.

Norman Jayden was addicted to two things: ARI and mysteries. It was a shame that one enabled him, and the other enabled the enabler- namely, solving mysteries was his job, and ARI helped him do that. He had tried to quit cold turkey, just once. He had gone exactly twenty-five hours and nine minutes without using it. In that time period, he had gnawed his nails to nothingness, pulled out clumps of his hair, and ground his teeth to the point where it hurt to take a bite of anything. He had chewed the ends of his pens to nothing, and he couldn't remember what happened to his paperclips. He did, vaguely, suspect that he had unwound them all and stuck them in a sponge, but he couldn't find the damned sponge.

In short, when Norman set the ARI glasses down on his bedside table and placed the glove right next to them, the instant he walked away he began to sweat. It wasn't that he needed ARI right then- what he needed the most at that moment was a shower- it was that he didn't like leaving the set unattended. At first, he had told himself it was because the damn thing was worth more than he was. Then, he admitted that he was worried about his life without it. Now, however? Now, if someone stole his ARI, he would separate their head from their neck, and do so gladly. And with a pair of safety scissors.

The shower would help. He could always clear his mind with the hot water running down his body. However, the instant Norman turned the shower water on, he was reminded of the searing heat he had felt through ARI. He grit his teeth and forced himself to step into the water's path, hissing as he drove the memory out of his mind. And then, all was well. Norman loosened his shoulders and neck, enjoying the gush of water, no longer thinking, no longer worrying.

He was snapped- violently- out of his reverie when the water became cold. Cold enough to make the seasoned FBI agent yelp, and hop out of the shower, shoving the curtain out of his way. He landed on the tile and his feet slipped out from under him, sending him sprawling. Norman's head hit the ground at an awkward angle, and, for the second time in as many hours, he was rendered unconscious.

But, this wasn't the peaceful black of complete absence of thought. Oh, no, his life was far too fucked up to allow him that. Rather, Norman found himself sitting in a log cabin, surrounded by portraits of grizzly bears and other game. There was a fireplace crackling, and he was seated in a velvet antique chair. At the same time, he was standing in front of said chair, conversing with himself. Although this made no sense, Norman ignored it. He was seated, and there was another him speaking to him. Simple enough.

"You have _got _to quit that shit, man. Cut it out." Other-Norman was gazing into Norman's eyes, snapping to make sure he had his attention. "Lissenup. If you keep using that bullshit, you'll die. You see this cabin?  
><em><br>(I just got me a cabin- you don't need my cabin)_

This cabin is all in your head. You notice how real it looks? Hear that river outside?  
><em><br>(River stay away from the door)_

By now, you've guessed it, ayuh? Frank Sinatra. You built this environment because, on some extremely subconscious level, you were thinking of "River Stay Away From My Door" by Frank Sinatra. Witness the power of the human imagination. What does ARI do, really, other than enhance that power? Allow you to see things that aren't there, to touch things that can't be touched?"

Norman couldn't help but feel that Other-Norman had a point. And, if ARI was enhancing his imagination, and his imagination had done _this_, this place that he could touch, and smell, hear and even _taste_, what could it do once ARI had wrecked it? Ripped it to shreds and put it back together with Adamantium mixed in? Norman didn't like to imagine the effects on his psyche.

The ceiling was spinning. Or was that a fan? No, it was the ceiling. Why was the ceiling spinning? Norman stood up, slowly, carefully, so as not to fall right back down. The ceiling stopped spinning, but now the ground was hurling itself up-_oof_. Norman groaned, getting to his feet a second time and steadying himself on the wall. He didn't quite understand what he had just seen, but the message was clear enough. It was time to head back to work- and to do so _without _abusing ARI. He'd use it, but in moderation; he'd once heard that one way to manage addiction was to manage dosage.

So, Norman Jayden dried off, got in a pair of boxers, and slept, planning to return to work the next day.


	4. Voices

Hi, guys! I'll openly admit that this chapter is a bit slow to start, and perhaps a bit scattered, but then, it always has been. I want you, the viewers (and reviewers, hyuk hyuk), to decide Norman's next move. Should he... well, you'll see once you get to the end. Also, thank you for sticking with this! I do have an ending in store, but if you're not open to a bit of... a bit of, shall we say, a mindfuck, you should probably stop reading now. Thanks again,  
>~Jingwei<p>

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><p>When Norman awoke, his first thought was one of panic. It always was, though; he couldn't wake up anymore without panicking. He forced himself to calm down, taking deep, slow breaths. He couldn't afford to have a breakdown- hell, he'd lasted this long without screaming into a pillow, he could last a few more days. That was what he kept telling himself, about everything- <em>just a few more days, Norman. A few more days, then you'll be able to rest. A few more days, and you can settle down. A few more days, is all. <em>Well, no longer. Yesterday, he had taken action, hadn't he?  
>The panic gripped him again as he remembered his hallucination yesterday. He had sworn, after that, to use ARI, but not abuse it. Now, he had a chance to put that plan into action. He had a chance to- to what? Wean himself off of the drug? <em>It's not a goddamned drug, Norman. It's a program. How many other people can use ARI without going mad? <em>A thought struck him, then, one that he had never been stricken with before.  
><em><br>Exactly how many people CAN use ARI without abusing it? How much weaker are you than they? How is it possible that ARI hasn't been recalled yet, if others are going through the same issues you are? _He paused in his rumination. It was bad for his health, that line of thinking,  
><em>(bad for your health that's funny, Norman)<br>_and he would discontinue it. Alas, it was certainly an interesting one, wasn't it? Just _how _many others were addicted? How many others had signed up for the program, became a super-agent, and then crumbled away into nothing?

He didn't like to imagine numbers. Norman shook his head and swung his feet over the edge of his bed. That was the best part about being him- you could show up as late to work as you wanted, and if the director, for whatever reason, hassled him, he could say he was using ARI. The last few times he'd said this, it had even been true- not that the director knew _why _he was using ARI.

Norman stood, stretched, and headed over to his closet. He checked his smartphone on the way there- apparently, it was supposed to be thirty-five degrees and rainy today. Ah, what a day to quit cold turkey. This thought gave him pause as he was reaching into his closet- he wasn't doing that. He wouldn't be quitting, he'd be _managing_. That was the truly hard thing, he decided, but it was necessary. He couldn't work without ARI. He'd been able to, before, and he may be able to again, but there was no way he could function at full capacity.

He wrung his hands and took a deep breath, letting it out in a hiss and grabbing an outfit. Today was a dark day- dark day meaning, a crisp white dress shirt, a pitch black suit-jacket and tie, and an equally dark woolen overcoat. It then occurred to him that he should probably have brushed his teeth and shaved _before _getting dressed up, but he was an adult. He could keep his clothes from getting messy. He slipped his feet into a pair of black dress shoes and began to head out. Norman looked at himself in his wall-mounted mirror- one habit of his was to look at himself before his day begun- and grimaced.

He hadn't nicked himself while shaving and his clothes were still clean. But he had dark circles under his eyes. His hair (far too short to be mussed, and just barely too long to leave well enough alone) was tangled, and it looked far worse than he'd thought. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was beginning to notice a throbbing headache that was starting at the base of his skull. Well, damn it all, he couldn't do anything to his hair, because he really was running late- wait, he was on sick leave, wasn't he? Norman wasn't even expected to be at work. Well, he'd taken some time off (less than a day, actually), so the director should be appeased, especially if he showed up a little late.

Norman went back into his bathroom and styled his hair, going for a slightly swept-back look. He stepped out _again_, checked the mirror _again_, and went to his bedside table to grab ARI before he left. His fingers felt, rather than the cool of the glasses and the rough warmth of the glove, something chalky and room temperature. It was a piece of paper- one of those odd, thick notecards. Norman's heart sped up. His breathing quickened, and he felt cold. He picked up the notecard and read the words written across it, in flowery script.

_Norman- I know about the effects of ARI on the human mind. I apologize for allowing you to keep your set for so long. We needed you, needed the solved cases, but it's not worth losing you as a useful agent. I knocked on your door, expecting to find you awake- working, no doubt, even though you promised you wouldn't- and was taken aback when it opened. You left your door ajar, Jayden, and that scares me. You were conked out on your bed. I took ARI and left this note- the one you're reading right now- for you. Feel free to come to work- IFF you're up to it._

_~Director_

The agent almost chuckled- the sarcastic undertone and IFF (if and only if) statement just screamed "DIRECTOR!" Norman didn't laugh, however; didn't even grin, because he knew that he had just lost his ARI. His addiction. His drug. And, if he didn't get it back, he would go insane.

Norman jogged out to his car- the rain hadn't started, but those clouds sure were ominous- and drove like the devil to the FBI's main office. He purposefully strode in through the main doors, checking that his badge and pistol were in place- he had grabbed those and placed them inside of his jacket when he put it on. He walked straight to the director's office, ignoring his secretary, and opened the door. _Just fucking __opened__ it. _Norman _must _have been crazy- no one did that.

"Ah! Norman, I'm glad you could make it!" The director stood up, spreading his arms wide in a gesture that said, "I know you know I was in your house last night, and I know you won't do anything about it" quite clearly. Well, fuck that. Norman stopped in front of the man's desk, jabbing his finger in the director's direction.

"You son of a bitch, you give me what's mine right now!" He was shaking, but he hid it fairly well; Norman had one of the best poker faces around. He was going to confront this man- his boss- and get ARI back. Get _his_ ARI back.

"Listen, son, there are two things you do _not _want to do to your boss. The first is raising your voice at him. The second is _pointing. _I _hate _that. Now, take a step back, calm down, and let's speak rationally." The director's voice was stern, yet there was a warmth in it that suggested friendship. Norman did just that- he took exactly one step back and let his arms fall to his sides.

"Apologies, director, I… I don't know what came over me. Just, please, listen. I was planning on starting a- a what-would-you-call-it, a regimen today. I was planning on cutting down- drastically- on my ARI use. I meant to…" Norman cut himself off, realizing two things. The first was that he was pleading; the second was that those _damned _tanks were back again. They had been the first sign, hadn't they? The first warning sign? They had never left his office before, but now they were driving all over the director's desk. "I… I meant to fix what I'd done wrong, sir. I meant to end my addiction."

The director followed Norman's gaze to his desk, and then dismissed it as confusion. _Kid must be confused_, he reasoned. _He's just lost his drug_. "Norman, I'm glad to hear that. Really, I am. Only thing is, I can't exactly trust you, can I? You've already started to lose it. I don't want your mind- or, for that matter, your blood- on my hands."

"Director, you…" Norman heard that voice  
><em>(it's you that other you)<br>_in his head again. _Don't you dare, Norman. Don't you do it. _Norman had been planning on reaching across the desk and throttling his boss, but that was likely a bad idea. So, he paused, gathered his thoughts, and simply asked politely for ARI back, assuring the director that he could be trusted.

The director said no. Norman nearly collapsed, but, using the desk for support, he regained his composure. He stepped out of the office, stumbling over his feet a few times on his way out of the building. It had been going so well- he had been about to start _winning_, for God's sake- and then the director had taken everything from him. The director had taken his life, basically.

Norman shoved the door open and headed out at a brisk walk. He wasn't going anywhere in particular- he soon found himself in unfamiliar territory, in the dark (the clouds covered all natural light, and the streetlights seemed to be out), and in the rain that was beginning. He had had bad experiences with rain, in the past. The agent glanced around and realized that he had wandered into what he called the poor district- there were more bums hiding out under awnings then there were houses on the street. One of them shambled towards him, and Norman realized something.

He was angry. Really angry. Angry enough to just take a swing- _NO! Do NOT do that, Norman! Do NOT hit that man, you sonofabitch! Do you want to lose your job? Wind up in jail for assault? _Norman knew that he was an FBI agent; in a court of law, no matter how many bums testified against him, there was not a single witness with more credibility than him. _Do it._ This was a different voice, now; a more commanding one. It seemed to have overwhelmed the other voice, overwhelmed the man who wanted to help him. _Whack the fuck. What business does he have with you? He'll probably start begging. You don't have any reason _not _to just reach out and whack him. So do it._

Norman clenched his fist, and forced himself to breathe deeply. He turned and ran, away from the poor district, back to his car. He sat inside of his vehicle for a moment, wetting the interior and not caring. He buried his head in his hands- but did not cry. Norman was beyond that now. He shook his head, exited his car, and re-entered the building, unsure of what to do next.


	5. Familiar Faces

CHANGE OF PLANS, EVERYONE! That alternate ending? It's now the real ending. *evil grin* So, enjoy this short chapter that proves one thing and one thing only:  
>I'M BACK, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!<p>

All credit for this plot idea goes to Chyrstis. You, sir, deserve points. Of some sort. Extra points go to whoever knows how I decided the dude's name at the end, there. Name that game!

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><p>He decided to head back to the Director's office. Sopping wet and not even noticing the fact that he was soaking the carpet- which would probably produce quite a bit of mold- he knocked on the door this time. The Director opened it and smiled wearily. "Norman, you're back. Are you willing to cooperate now?" Norman nodded dully. "Good! Much better! Now, here's the deal. Your case is… unique. Other agents signed up for the program- as you know- and, well, they weren't as severely affected."<p>

Norman crumpled inside. He knew it. He _was _weaker, he _was _worse. The Director saw his face contort into a grimace, and hurriedly continued his statement. "Now, you have to understand! I never told you- assumed you knew- but you have been setting quite a few records. Most cases solved in a week, most total serial murder cases solved- Christ, you're almost on par with J. Edgar! Therefore, ARI would have a stronger grip on you. I'm sorry, son. It's like I said- I really should have stopped you earlier." So, it was the Director's fault, was it? Okay. Fair enough. Granted, Norman knew it wasn't, but it was nice to be able to blame someone else.

He couldn't stand knowing that he was less than someone else. He couldn't stand it. Call him conceited, but he was supposed to be top-of-the-line. So, he gave the Director his special request. The man's eyebrows rose, but he soon frowned. Norman had just asked for the names and addresses of all the other ARI users. The Director looked at him long and hard, and finally dropped his gaze. "Why, Norman?"

"Sir, I'd like to know if they're having any of my problems. I'd like to find a way to cope." He left the end of his sentence unspoken; if this worked, and if he could find a way to deal with it, then he would take his ARI back. And he would continue to use it, but not abuse it. The Director looked back up at him and sighed, shaking his head. He reached into his desk, and for one glorious moment, Norman thought he was getting ARI back. Alas, it was not to be; instead, the Director handed him a list.

"I haven't been able to keep tabs on all of them, to be honest, Norman. Thirty men and women in all, and the ones marked with a red asterisk are the ones who… suffer from an addiction." The agent took the sheet of paper and noted that seventeen of the names were marked with an asterisk. In other words, seventeen of thirty people- including himself- were addicted to ARI. He noted that each name was connected to a location, and saw that the closest person lived in New York- so, not quite close, but not far away, either.

The person's name was Sinclair Lynch, and Norman knew him.


	6. Old Friends

BY THE NINE DIVINES! BY THE EIGHT AND ONE! BY AZURA, BY AZURA, BY AZURA! Finals killed me. And my mind. And all my ambition. However, a recent event rekindled it, and I came up with this, er, demonic child. I LOVE this chapter. I hope you will too, and I'd like you all to know that I've settled on an ending; or, more accurately, three. In keeping true with the story of Silent Hill (not Heavy Rain, because frankly, I like this analogy better- you'll see why) I've added a "good", "bad", and "UFO" ending! Well, not UFO, per se, but you'll see. I'd like you all to know that I can write more, now, and do plan on it. Actually, I'm already halfway through a new chapter! Finally, I cannot thank my reviewers enough. You give me what I need to keep writing. You give me drive, and I value that more than I would wealth beyond measure. Probably.

~Sincerely and forever yours,

General Jingwei

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><p>And so it was that the two "prodigal sons" of Boston were rejoined. Sinclair was a top notch cop- soon to be police chief- when Norman left to join the FBI. The story went a little something like this: Sinclair and Norman joined the Boston Police Department on the very same day. The BPD welcomed them with open arms- Sinclair was a crime scene detectiveforensic specialist, and Norman was a criminal profiler. Both of these were hard positions to fill; well, they were hard to fill with _talented_ men, at least.

Norman and Sinclair had become fast friends, although they worked in two different fields. They both excelled in their respective areas, and they became known as the "Golden Boys", then the "Prodigal Sons"- both owing to their skill and youth. They nodded and accepted the compliments politely- but it was no easy ride. Their jobs began to usurp their personal lives. Sinclair ended up having to dump his long-time girlfriend, while Norman stayed single. He and Sinclair often joked that Norman was too shy to get a girl- which, was, in essence, true.

Then, one day, Norman had received an official request- stamped and sealed, wouldn't you know- from the Director of the Federal Bureau of Intelligence. He said that he had noticed Norman's talent, and that the D.C. office could use a man of his talent. Of course, the young profiler couldn't quite decline- just think! A cushy office job in the nation's capital! Sinclair, too, urged him to accept. A day after receiving the request, Norman Jayden resigned from the Boston Police Department, packed his things, and moved to D.C. He never heard from Sinclair again, much to his disappointment.

Well, now Norman was standing outside of the house marked "1313" on a street whose name he couldn't remember anymore. He actually felt good- aside from the lack of memory- today. He could breathe slowly and deeply. His thoughts were clear and collected… mostly. He still felt the urge, but it wasn't as strong. Maybe the Director was right; maybe a break was all he needed. Maybe he could just go back to using it soon… he then frowned in thought. If he quit so that he could continue using it later, didn't that mean he was still addicted? Or was it something else entirely? Shaking his head, Norman knocked on the door.

"Just a minute, boyo, don't break the damn thing!" Ah, that's right. Norman had almost forgot Sinclair's Irish brogue. Not to mention his rather straightforward nature. The door opened, and Norman hid his smile and assumed an official posture. Sinclair frowned, tilting his head before tentatively asking, "Wotsit?" Norman looked him straight in the eye and cleared his throat.

"My name's Sinclair Lynch, Boston PD. I'm an amateur forensics specialist and I use Norman Jayden as a crutch." Sinclair's mouth dropped open, and he laughed- first quietly, then uproariously. He began quivering, convulsing with great guffaws. He had also nearly forgotten Sinclair's… obtrusive nature.

"Norman Jayden, you old therapist, how have you _been? _How does the FBI treat ya? Put enough food on the table, fatass?" He backhanded Norman's stomach lightly. Norman hadn't been fat, had he? He couldn't remember. Well, he supposed it was possible. He wasn't anymore. He noted that Sinclair had stepped out on the porch and closed the door behind him.

"Well, fuck me, Sinny, all I get is a 'hi, you old fatso'? Not even gonna invite me inside so I can mooch outta your fridge, like old times?" Norman had slipped into a less formal mannerism. He always did, around Sinclair. It was hard not to. Sinclair averted his eyes.

"Ah, the place is a bit of a mess right now…" Norman remembered the most important facet of information he had gotten from the list; Sinclair's name had been marked with a red asterisk. He was suffering. "Well, I mean, of course you can come in. Just don't mind the garbage." He opened the door and stepped inside, waving Norman in after him and encouraging him to close the door. Norman did so, and had to struggle to keep his mouth shut. It was an absolute disaster.

The ground was littered with papers, and a nearby table had been overturned. The television had a crack running across it diagonally, and the sofa had holes ripped in it, the stuffing pouring out. The doors leading to the kitchen and hallway were closed, so Norman couldn't see any more, but he assumed that it was equally bad. "Oh, crap, Sinny. You alright?" He had to play like he didn't know about ARI- for now, at least.

"Ah, yeah, I'm fine." He waved away Norman's concern. "Just having a bit of an issue is all." Norman could see that. And he promptly told him so.

"Yeah, I can see that. Uh, what the hell made you take a few bites outta your sofa? Or crack that TV?"

Sinclair took a few seconds to steel himself and said, "Eh. It's not a thing to talk to an old friend about. What about you? Where did you end up? How'd the job in D.C. go?" Norman could see that he was uncomfortable dealing with the subject at hand. He understood that well enough, and Sinclair, although an objective, was also a good friend.

"Job in D.C. went great, thanks. Still working there. I've uh, solved a few cases. Nothing too major." He realized what he had said only too late- Sinclair would know about the Origami Incident. He mentally cursed himself- Sinclair's torn-up apartment really had thrown him for a loop.

"Nothing too major, eh? I heard different. I heard that you stopped the Origami Killer. I heard that you 'saved our children'. Or was that a different Norman Jayden with the same incomprehensible accent?" Sinclair smiled, and he was his old self again- for a moment. He pulled two chairs out of the adjoining kitchen- making sure Norman couldn't see the room over his shoulder- and set one down near Norman. They sat down and talked together. At some point, Sinclair produced a few beers and a bottle of whiskey out of thin air- or maybe out of the kitchen when Norman wasn't looking- and they drank together. It was just like old times.

Norman remembered that Sinclair didn't hold his liquor very well; this surprised Norman, since Sinclair was Irish, but he supposed not all stereotypes held true. And he had an advantage; if what he understood of ARI's effects was true, Sinclair would be even more susceptible. If prolonged usage of ARI caused the imagination to become stronger, it would also have to weaken the barriers the mind sets up, thus lessening your overall ability to focus. Therefore, if Norman just got a tiny bit of whiskey into him, he should open up some more.

Hopefully.


End file.
